My dad would have been 92 today. I miss him. I miss him in ways I didn’t anticipate, and ways I did—like the knowledge in his final days that I would never call him and hear him pick up the phone and say, “Hi Beth” or “Hi Beffer.” I miss the opportunity to ask him questions—that’s a thing that I didn’t anticipate, but should have. Dad was never a big story-teller—that was always Mom’s shtik, but sometimes you got snippets.
Here’s what I know about my dad’s birth. He was born at home on December 11, 1932 because there was a snow storm and they couldn’t get to the hospital. He was premature. After he was born they filled milk bottles with warm water and put them in with him. Here’s what I don’t know—how premature WAS he? Who delivered him if the roads were too bad for them to get to the hospital? How bad was this snowstorm? As a storyteller myself, I want the details. For most of these questions I have no answer—all the people “in the room” have now passed. I was able to learn that 2.5 inches of snow fell in Philadelphia that day, thanks to NOAA’s historical records. I asked my mom how premature dad was and she said, “I think about a month.” I’m not positive my dad knew who delivered him—my grandmother would likely not have shared that information with him in the way that my contemporaries and I share our birthing stories. But now I’ll never know…
I do know that my dad always felt that, had he been born in the hospital, he might have been blind. I learned this while watching the movie “If You Could See What I Hear” with Dad in the 80s. It is an autobiographical story of the actor, writer, and musician Tom Sullivan. Sullivan was also premature and had retinopathy of prematurity (ROP) due to excessive oxygen in the incubator. This is also the way that Stevie Wonder lost his sight. If dad had been in the hospital when he was born prematurely he likely would have been incubated and suffered a similar loss of sight. After watching the show dad told me that since learning of ROP in his early days in medicine, he had always thought that it was a blessing that he was born at home.
Life is a series of beginnings and endings, hellos and goodbyes, entries and exits. I imagine my dad’s entry as a quiet drama—no ability to get to the hospital, snow falling, maybe a tree in the corner decorated for the Christmas holiday that would be two weeks later, family surrounding his parents, and love flowing for this beloved child—the only one my grandparents would have. And I think of it as a blessing. This beginning opened him to all of his future possibilities and ultimately to becoming my dad.
I had nearly 60 years to ask questions about the circumstance around his birth, but it never occurred to me to do so. Now, on my my dad’s birthday I’m considering his first day and I have only sketchy details. And it only matters because he’s not here for me to ask about it…
I do know about his last day. And I know about the days leading up to it.
Dad was diagnosed with metastatic prostate cancer in December of 2022. This past May, after multiple hospitalizations, he learned that his treatment was no longer working and chose to go on hospice. His team was outstanding and, after a few weeks, got Dad comfortable and sleeping well. He had a good summer.
His final moments had their own quiet drama. After an early morning fall on Monday, August 19, Dad declined rapidly. We visited on Monday and Tuesday and found him responsive but uncomfortable. On Wednesday, I got a call that, while he seemingly had a peaceful night, they could not wake him. The whole family rallied to his side.
The hospice team advised us that we should limit the number of people in the room—that having too many people in the room might detract from the patient. We made certain that anyone who wanted a private moment had that opportunity. Then we crowded in the room and reminisced and laughed and prayed and loved each other. At one moment I looked at my sister and said, “He loves this!” Of course, I’m sure he also wanted us to simmer down…
What an honor and blessing it was to be present for these final moments—to witness his peaceful passing after nearly two years of illness. I am grateful that our entire family was there in his last moments, that we were able to support my mom and each other. I recognize it for its rarity and know that our presence comforted him. This scene that played out was not unlike the one I imagine at his birth—surrounded by a loving and boisterous family. And so he exited, his goodbye an echo of that hello on December 11, 1932. And we were blessed to share in it.